


Ash and Dust

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-02
Updated: 2006-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They buried Mary Winchester on a cold, clear winter day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash and Dust

_"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."_ \-- C.S. Lewis

-

They buried Mary Winchester on a cold, clear winter day.

_Shall not want._

Mary's mother stood across from him, her tiny frame ramrod straight, a prim hat set on her stark white hair. She met his eyes briefly, then looked away. She was not crying.

_Lie down in green pastures_.

The preacher spoke quietly, his voice gentle and calm, dry like wind across the prairie.

_Still waters._

John closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he saw only dark shapes at the edge of his vision, clasped hands and white handkerchiefs, black marks on the brilliant, sunny day.

_Valley of the shadow of--_

-

I hate that psalm, she says after her great-aunt's funeral in Liberal.

Hate is a pretty strong word, he replies. Most people like it.

I have my reasons, she says, and her voice is sad, tired. She promises, I'll tell you someday.

They walk away from the grave toward the car, her hand on his arm, the scent of fresh-cut grass filling the air. As he opens the passenger side door for her, she says, When I die, I want them to read poetry. Keats, maybe, or Shelley. Something alive, something romantic. Anything but that psalm.

Okay, he agrees. He starts the car, checks the mirrors before backing out.

Oh, you'll forget, she says. She smiles a little and brushes a strand of hair back from her face. Besides, what makes you think you'll outlive me? I have family history on my side. Just look at Great-Aunt Lucille, holding on to the ripe age of one hundred and three.

-

Dean's hand was warm and small in his own, and beside him Mary's sister Anne bounced and cooed softly while Sammy fidgeted in her arms.

_I will fear no evil._

Kate had offered to take the boys, keep them home -- _not home_ \-- today. They're too young, she said, there's no reason for them to go. Too young, John had thought, but that's not right. He accepted the cup of coffee Kate offered and did not ask just when she thought they would be old enough.

_In the presence of mine enemies._

John blinked rapidly and looked up, across the crooked field of headstones and crosses, brown dormant grass and leafless trees. Snow clung to the ground in the shadows, but the worn paths through the graves were thawed and muddy.

_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life._

Anne touched his arm, and John started. The preacher said _Amen_ and the black-clad shapes around him relaxed into motion, whispers and murmurs, shifting and adjusting coats. The small hand grasping his own tugged once, twice. John looked down, but Dean said nothing.

-

He stands at the window in the maternity ward, looking over a tidy row of pink and blue blankets.

Which one is yours? Suddenly she is beside him, a kindly-faced old woman in a red-and-white volunteer's uniform, her gray hair pulled back into a bun.

There, there he is. He points -- a wriggling blue bundle beyond the glass, tiny pink fists, wide eyes looking around curiously. John is unable to stop grinning; he knows he must look like an idiot, but he figures that he's allowed, at least today. He tells the woman, He's our first. Our first son.

The old woman's face crinkles into a smile. He's beautiful, she says, and even though old ladies always say that about babies John's grin only widens and he agrees.

Then she tilts her head thoughtfully to one side and says, He'll have a fire in him, that one.

And she shuffles away, the soles of her shoes squeaking on the pale green floor.

-

The casket was cherry wood, and the silk that lined the inside was the color of cream.

There was almost nothing left to bury. The fire investigators said they had never seen a fire burn so hot with so little cause. The coroner said that without the eyewitness account it would have been hard to identify the body. The cops said that might have been awfully convenient, if only they could find a motive for the husband.

None of them said it to John, but he heard them anyway. Nothing left to bury. A nursery reduced to ash. Never seen anything like it. Terrible, terrible, those poor boys. Nothing left to bury.

The casket -- polished and smooth, shining in the sunlight -- sunk into the grave, into the ground, and the sound of a fistful of dirt hitting the wood was like summer rain on the roof.

-

She is walking ahead of him in the new spring grass, barefoot despite the lingering chill. The wind catches her hair and lifts it from her shoulder, feathers of pale gold, and she tosses her head with a laugh.

Come on, she calls, not looking back. Don't be such a slow poke!

He hurries after her. He feels large and clumsy, too solid, too heavy for an early morning chase on the prairie; his boots crush the grass with every step.

When she stops and drops to her knees, he finally catches up.

The first flower, she says, her voice low and reverent.

She is cupping a tiny blue blossom in her hands. He crouches beside her, breathing in her scent, leaning close to feel her warmth. Her dress is thin, worn cotton, light green with tiny white flowers, clinging to her waist and breasts and thighs. She sees where he is staring and laughs. Caught, he blushes, then smiles and leans closer.

Come on, she says again, jumping to her feet. She plucks the flower, tucks the stem behind her ear, and skips away. Hurry!

He walks behind her slowly. They have all day.

-

The house was crowded with somber suits and black dresses. John moved through the entry way into the living room, muttering _excuse me, excuse me_ as people moved aside. Words flowed around him, sympathies and condolences -- _I'm so sorry, it was lovely service, I'm so sorry_ \-- but he ignored them.

The house was too hot. Kate and Mike always fought over the thermostat; she was from Florida, but this was even worse than usual. John nodded absently as somebody else reached out to him, touched his arm, and he ducked into the dim hallway at the base of the stairs.

"John."

Mary's mother was standing before him. She was such a tiny woman, he felt overbalanced for a moment, stopping abruptly and immediately thinking of escape, then feeling ashamed.

"It was a lovely service," she said.

_She wanted poetry,_ John thought. _She hated that psalm._ But he only nodded.

"I know this is difficult for you," she went on. He nodded again. "I want you to know that I am willing to take the boys for a time, if you need--"

John felt his heart clench. "No," he said, much too harshly. She frowned, and he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Vera. I -- thank you for everything, but I -- excuse me."

He turned quickly and hurried back to the living room. Dark suits and black dresses, cocktail napkins and quiet voices, but he didn't see anybody holding the baby. John's gaze automatically dropped to knee-level; Dean was much too good at hiding when he wanted to. John pushed through the crowded room -- _excuse me, excuse me_ \-- panic rising in his chest.

-

He wakes, and the other side of the bed is empty. Blinking in confusion, he sits up, then swings his legs off the bed and feels around for his slippers. The wind is howling outside, a fierce spring storm, and he hears the window in the bathroom rattling. He'll have to fix it again.

He stands up and goes into the hallway. She's leaning in the doorway of Dean's room, a pale white shape in the darkness, and she turns and smiles as John comes up behind her. He slips his arms around her, running his hands over her swollen belly, and kisses the nape of her neck.

Anything wrong? he asks.

No, she says, leaning back against him. I just couldn't sleep. The baby's got his feet in all the wrong places.

This one -- he pats her belly softly -- is more trouble than he's worth.

She laughs, twists her head to kiss him. She says, that's what your firstborn son said today, you know. He informed me that he doesn't want a little brother anymore, because then he'll have to take turns on the slide at the park.

Oh, dear, John says with mock concern. That could be a problem. Did you tell him that it's too late?

I did.

And?

He said we can keep the baby, as long as he gets the use the slide first.

Well, good. I'm glad that's settled. Crisis averted.

Until they start fighting over the keys to the car.

John groans, closes his eyes and rests his chin on her shoulder. I'll let you handle that one.

She winds her fingers into his, holding his hands tight. We'll flip a coin.

-

"John, here."

He stopped, and the quiet murmur of the room filled his ears again, the faces snapped into focus, and a small hand grasped the bottom of his jacket. Something loosened in his chest. Anne was beside him, the baby in her arms, Dean leaning against her legs.

She held him Sam out to John without hesitation, and Dean detached from her side and came over to his father silently. "I just fed him," she said, a strange small smile on her lips. "He was fussing, but he's fine now."

John stood awkwardly for a moment, looking down at Sammy's pink face.

"You should sit down," Anne said. She took his elbow and steered him over to the couch. "Don't worry about all these people. They'll go away soon."

John settled onto the sofa and exhaled slowly. Dean climbed onto the cushion beside him, sat against the back with his legs sticking out before him, his wide green eyes watching the room.

"Thank you," John said, looking up at Anne.

"Do you need anything?"

"No." John shifted Sam into the crook of his elbow and ran a hand over his elder son's hair. "No, nothing."

She pursed her lips, looking remarkably like her mother for a moment, then she nodded and sat down as well, on the other side of Dean, and said nothing more.

-

He carries the bookshelves from the hardware store out to her car. She twirls her keys around her finger, then stands aside as he manhandles the wooden planks into the trunk.

Thank you very much, she says, and it sounds a little bit like a tease.

My pleasure, miss, he replies. He steps away, ready to go back into the store.

You can always count on a man in uniform, she says, smiling.

His heart skips a little -- either it's been too long or that's a damn fine smile -- then he frowns. I'm not in uniform, he points out. Not now, anyway.

A girl can always tell. Her smile widens, and she holds out her hand. I'm Mary, she says. I'm new in town.

He wipes his hand hurriedly on his jeans. I'm John. Welcome to Lawrence. And, uh, enjoy your -- your bookshelves.

She laughs, a full and lively sound, her head tilted back, neck long and smooth. She holds on to his hand just a moment too long.

I'm sure I will, she says. And she winks. See you around?

He's still grinning like an idiot when she drives away.


End file.
